No, mon. I mean the white man. Doc. You know ’im?
Yes I do, I proudly said.
So why’re you chasin’ him, mon?
He’s my father. Only I haven’t seen him in a long time, and I’ve been living in the States and he didn’t know I was coming back to Jamaica. That’s why he kept going, I said. He probably just didn’t see me.
Doc be cool, I-Man said. Him come an’ go alla time, fe trampoosing all across de lands, him settin’ de pace. Time, material an’ space, mon, gas, clutch an’ brakes. Technology controls, Bone, techno set de pace.
I said for them to c’mon, cut the shit and tell me what’s up with Doc because I only knew what my mom and my grandmother’d told me which wasn’t all that much and the cop laughed and said the same as I-Man, Doc be cool. Didn’t know he had a son in the States though.
Baby Doc, I-Man said and he laughed too. Papa Doc an’ him baby.
They were like slipping around the subject but I kept asking and pretty soon it came out that my father was an actual doctor working for the government in Kingston about a hundred miles away and he lived over there in a big government apartment and the woman he’d been with in the Range Rover was his girlfriend named Evening Star, this rich American who lived near here in a greathouse whatever that was and who he visited sometimes and came down to Mobay driving her car and so on.
Papa Doc a man you can deal wi’, I-Man said. Don’t know him ’oman though. Him call Evenin’ Star?
The cop said oh yeah he knew her all right, most everybody in Mobay knew Evenin’ Star and knew her house too, big fancy place with lots of different people hanging out including Doc. Dem mostly jus’ limin’, the cop said and he told us where the greathouse was located which wasn’t far, this town called Montpelier maybe eight or ten miles into the hills. I-Man shrugged and said we could go up there by bus if I wanted and I said, Excellent. Let’s go now.
No problem, I-Man said and off we went with the cop kind of smirking after like he smelled something we didn’t but I just figured it was because he knew I-Man was going up there to check out the ganja-selling possibilities, not just to help me find my father which was okay by me. Everybody’s got his own agenda and that’s cool. The good thing about I-Man was he never laid his agenda down on top of mine. Unlike certain people. He always just said, Up t’ you, Bone.
We rode this old top-heavy wheezing green bus that was all decorated with Rasta designs like lions wearing crowns and even had a name on the front, Zion Gate up a long curvy hill with cliffs that dropped away from the edge of the narrow road into gorges and you could see rusting cars and trucks and even a crashed bus way at the bottom with the jungle growing back over them and little cabins close by the side of the road where kids stood at the door and watched as we passed and women were washing clothes next to a stream and so on. Until finally we came to a village which I guessed was Montpelier with a couple of one-room convenience stores the same as we have Stewart’s and 7-Elevens at home only smaller and when we got off the bus and went inside one of them for Craven A’s it had hardly anything to sell, like canned milk and yellow cheese and rum and beer was about it.
I-Man asked the woman behind the counter for directions to the home of the Evening Star which she rattled off in Jamaican too fast for me to understand. Then we came back out and walked along the road a ways and cut off it up this long winding lane to the left where there were little cinderblock houses with tin roofs set back in the bushes with goats lunching on the brush and pigs wandering loose or sleeping in the yard and little blond dogs yapping at us as we passed, a white kid wearing a doo-rag and a Rasta with a Jah-stick from away heading slowly uphill. As we walked we got occasional peeks and views of the bright blue ocean way below. Hummingbirds and regular birds too flew alongside us and there were loads of butterflies making loops and there weren’t any more houses after a while, just the lane and the trees and vines and the birds and butterflies and those big black buzzards they call John Crows circling high overhead. It was real quiet and we were sweating pretty good from the climb by now and I was wondering if maybe I-Man’d heard the lady with the directions wrong.
But pretty soon we came over the top of this one mountain where we could see down through the hills and valleys below gaining a sudden wideview panoramic look all the way to the ocean and could even see Mobay down there looking like a regular seaport town with boats and white buildings and orange rooftops and all, and for a minute I was remembering the terrific view of the Adirondacks from the Ridgeways’ summerhouse. Then when we walked a little ways further we came around a corner and saw this fancy old sign that said STARPORT which I knew was the house’s name, not the people who owned it and I almost lost my locale and was back on East Hill Road in Keene with Russ instead of I-Man that day after I first got my tat and took the name Bone.
A small black goat with blue eyes stood in the bushes though and stared at me and I-Man and that brought me straight back to Jamaica, and then there were these big stone pillars that we went through and suddenly we’re in this fantastic terraced yard with green grass and all kinds of flowers growing and these strange statues all over the place of life-size American-type animals like rabbits and foxes and beavers and suchlike painted white except for their eyes and nostrils and mouths which were bright red. They were a little on the strange side. It was definitely an unusual kind of yard, like you expected them to be making a movie there or a fancy restaurant.
The driveway curled up a long ways to this huge white-stone two-story ancient house from France or England set on the side of the mountain looking down on Mobay and the sea ten miles away like it ruled the countryside and a duke or a minor king lived in it. We came up on it from below peering up at its majesty like on our hands and knees showing reverence only we were just walking along the driveway trying to look cool, leastways I was. The house was real old, I think from slavery days but fixed up with lots of columns along the front and huge high windows and like patios all around and more animal statues with the red eyes and mouths placed here and there on the patio walls. There was a swimming pool over at the right side of the house and you could see some white people and black people standing around up there with glasses in their hands and a couple of white females with bikinis in the group who didn’t have anything over their tits the same as the guys. Then on the left over at the other side of the house and toward the front I saw a few parked cars, including the Range Rover.
All of a sudden I got incredibly nervous. Like what if he told me to fuck off? I knew he was my real father for sure so I wasn’t worried it was a case of mistaken identity but what if he denied he even had a son my age named Chappie who he’d left behind in upstate New York almost ten years ago? What if he didn’t like me personally? What if he thought I was too short or something?
Then there was this roaring noise and I thought it was a bomb going off but it was a humongous blast of music coming from the pool area like from a live reggae concert. It was Baldhead Bridge by Culture which I recognized from the ant farm tapes and it was booming out of these two huge black speakers up on the wall by the pool that were the size of refrigerators, the kind you see at outdoor concerts in the States and they were aimed away from the pool and rocked the universe out there, slamming reggae down through the gardens and the jungle-covered hills all the way along the steep valley to Mobay practically and the folks up at the pool now were dancing around with the females’ tits jiggling and the guys bobbing and snapping along, everyone with spliffs and drinks in their hands. The music was so loud and the bass was so heavy it controlled your heartbeat and I was thinking the leaves’d start coming off the trees any minute and the white animals might crack and crumble from it.
As we went up the long set of wide steps to the front door I-Man leans into me and he goes, Jah-sniffers, Bone, and looked suddenly real serious instead of how he usually looked which was only curious and patient. Then we were standing on this long wide porch in front of a huge open door and could see inside the house
to I guess the livingroom which was dark and all paneled and filled with fancy couches and long tables and a big set of stairs disappearing above and a bunch of bamboo birdcages with green parrots and other birds in them and all these weird paintings on the walls of wild animals and tropical scenery like they’d been painted by a little kid on acid and for a second I wanted to get out of there and back to the ant farm where things were more normal.
But just then here comes Evening Star, the white Rasta lady of the house in this flowing red and gold and green gown and her dreadlocks swinging and her bracelets clanging and I notice she’s holding a pretty-good-sized J like it’s a cigarette. Her skin was this professional sun-bather’s color almost like a wallet but she was pretty good-looking for her age like she worked out a lot and dieted and all because even though she was on the heavy side I could see she had a lot of muscle. Coming along beside her was a big old black Lab and trotting behind the Lab was one of those tiny blond Jamaican yard dogs who’re usually scrawny but this one’s fat like a taco and both the dogs look and act like they’re used to strangers and almost glad to see us which is not like any dogs I’ve ever known.
Evening Star smiles at I-Man and goes, Greetings, Rasta! Respect, mon. Everyt’ing irie, mon?
He just nods and turns to me like I’m supposed to say something but nothing comes. I don’t know why but suddenly it was like my tongue wouldn’t work. I even opened my mouth but no words, no sounds came out at all.
Finally I-Man said, De bwoy him be Baby Doc, an’ him lookin’ fe him fodder, Papa Doc.
The reggae was blasting away outside by the pool and we could barely hear even normal words never mind I-Man’s Rasta-rap so she asked him to tell her again which he did until she seemed to get it and smiled at me real warm and almost motherly and drawled, Oh, y’all want to look at the paintings! The Haitian pictures. Are you an artist? she says to me like I’m in kindergarten which kind of pissed me off and I said no and very relieved to be talking again I said, I’m looking for somebody.
I see, she said real serious but I could see she didn’t see so I went ahead and told her I was looking for the man she’d been with at the marketplace in Mobay. I’m looking for Paul Dorset, I said.
Paul? You mean Dod!
Yeah, whatever.
You’re an American, aren’t you? Nobody from here calls him Paul, she said. Except me. She had this weird slow way of talking that put a lot of emphasis on certain words and when she spoke she kind of leaned forward and wrapped her lips around the word like she was kissing it which was distracting so you tended not to notice that she wasn’t saying anything very important or interesting. She sounded like she was from down South maybe, like Alabama or Georgia. Also due to her not wearing any bra when she leaned forward like that you could see her tits which I think she liked but that too made you forget what she was saying.
O-kay, she said. Y’all and the Rasta just sattar, everyt’ing be irie, mon, an’ mi bring Doc, she said and she whirled and split and took off up the wide curving stairs with the dogs following her like shadows leaving me and I-Man to look at each other like, What kind of crazy shit is this?
We wandered around in the livingroom looking at the birds and then the pictures which were from Haiti I guess and actually when you studied them they were basically peaceful and kind and made you feel relaxed even though they were definitely strange. The room was like a ballroom with high ceilings and windows from the floor to the ceiling almost that were open to the wide porch out front and a breeze blew through and it was shady and cool inside and with the reggae playing and now and then the sound of people laughing by the pool and the splashes when they dove in and suchlike I was thinking this is a pretty cool life my father’s got. Better than anything he had with my mom, that’s for sure.
I-Man was in back watching this huge painting of a lion lying in the jungle with all kinds of other animals that it would normally slay and I was standing there by the door looking out across the terraced gardens with all the white red-eyed animals and down the valley to the sea and for a while I watched a couple of John Crows slowly loop their way up the long slope rising and circling without even moving their wings as they rose into the sky until I almost forgot why I was here, when I heard footsteps behind me clicking on the polished floor and I turned and there he was, my real father!
He didn’t recognize me obviously, on account of me having changed physically so much since I was five and he looked slightly irritated like Evening Star’d interrupted his nap or something. He was incredibly tall, at least to me he was and skinny but with a good build just the same and he had a long brown-haired ponytail and a diamond stud in his left ear and he was wearing these loose tan shorts and sandals and a fancy white shortsleeved shirt that was silk or something. He was all tanned too like Evening Star only on him it looked like he’d gotten it naturally and not from sunbathing on purpose although I could tell in a second he was one of those guys who thinks about their looks a lot like ol’ Bruce did except my father was much more normal-looking than Bruce. Plus he obviously had major bucks, being a doctor and all.
He goes, What can I do y’ for? and then looking around the room he caught I-Man in back and he says, That I-Man? Yo, Rasta, wussup? Respect, mon. Everyt’ing irie? talking pseudo-Rasta like Evening Star which made me wince a little. But it was cool that my father knew how to do it.
Everyt’ing irie, I-Man said and went back to studying the picture of the lion like he was playing a video game.
Well, what about you? he says to me. Evening Star tells me you’re here to see me. Do I know you? he says looking down at me now and giving me the big once-over. Evening Star was lounging behind a ways leaning against the banister and taking occasional draws on her fatty and nodding her head to the beat of the music in the background and shuffling her feet in a little dancestep with her eyes closed and suchlike. Really into it.
What’s your name, kid? he asked me and he took out a pack of Craven A’s and lit one.
My name’s Bone, I said. But . . . but it used to be Chappie. Chapman.
Oh? he says and he lifts his eyebrows like he’s made the big connection but doesn’t believe it yet so mainly he’s suspicious. What’s your last name? Bone. Bone what?
Just Bone. But it used to be Dorset, I said. Same as you. He held out the pack of cigarettes and I took one and he lit it for me and I saw that his hand was shaking which was a good sign, I thought.
Okay. Dorset, he says. Same as me. Well, does that mean we’re related?
By now Evening Star’d picked up the drift of our conversation and came over with her eyes glittering and the dogs were excited too like they could read her mind. I decided then just to say it straight out and let whatever happens happen, Jah’s will be done et cetera so I go, Yeah. We’re definitely related, man. I’m your son.
His mouth dropped and he goes, My son! Chappie? He says, You’re Chappie? like maybe he expected some six-foot All American dude instead of a short skinny scabby-kneed kid in a doo-rag and tee shirt and cutoffs.
But he grinned, he actually looked happy to see me and he said, Lemme see you! Lemme see what you look like, for Christ’s sake! and he pulls off my doo-rag and studies my face for a second and keeps on grinning like he’s actually ecstatic to see me now which relieves me a lot.
Evening Star says, This is so cool! This is so wild! and the dogs are jumping around and grinning too and I-Man has come over and has his old amused pursed-lip smile back like he’d arranged the whole thing and is pleased it’s all working out so nice for everybody. There’s a heavy Bob Marley song booming from the poolside speakers, I Shot the Sheriff, and some guy is hollering, Cynthia, Cynthia, watch this! and I can hear the diving board thump and a big splash.
My father put his cigarette into an ashtray and took mine and did the same and then he placed his hands on my shoulders. He held me away from him and looked into my face like he was looking into his own distant past and his eyes filled up.
Then he said, Ah, Jesu
s, Chappie, thank God you’ve finally found me, son, and he pulled me against his chest and hugged me hard and my own eyes filled up but I didn’t cry because even though I knew that from now on everything was going to be different I didn’t know in what way so in the middle of the moment that should’ve been the happiest moment of my life so far I was scared instead.
He stepped back and caught my crossed bones and he said smiling, What’s that?
It’s a tat. A tattoo.
Lemme see it, he said and he drew my arm toward him and turned it over like a mainliner looking for a vein to shoot. That’s because of the name? Bone?
Vicey-versie.
Then he dropped my arm and looked at me from way up there and he laughed. Ah, you little devil. Yeah. Yeah, you’re my son all right! he said and he hugged me again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE BONE
After that there was a continuous flurry of activities you might say, except when my father had to go back to Kingston to work as a doctor which he did three or four days a week. Instead of calling the place Starport I named it the Mothership on account of how Evening Star ran it but only to myself and I-Man because nobody else up there seemed to have too good a sense of humor about the scene, not even my father. There were all these lost animals Evening Star took in, like dogs and cats and goats and birds. Plus the people who I called the campers. I-Man didn’t know what campers were so I had to explain but it got lost in the translation I guess because he still didn’t get it.
Mostly though the campers were from the States, the white ones at least and the females and the rest were Jamaican dudes who were hanging mainly for what they could get out of the Americans who were like these artist types and older and compared to the Jamaicans rich. The really rich one it looked to me was Evening Star. I think she was like an heiress and the Mothership’d been one of her family’s estates and she paid for everything, I noticed.